


Denny's

by plsnskanks (orphan_account)



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Grinding, M/M, dennys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 00:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15762495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/plsnskanks
Summary: Tom and Tord are both grimy fucks





	Denny's

With things the way they are the days seem to meld together. Tord just out and disappears one morning and Tom is left to pick up the pieces of someone who never cared much for the affect he has on ghosting in and out of people’s lives.

Matt is ambivalent. He never liked Tord much, if he is being honest. He, ironically, never liked Tord’s self-obsessed, narcissistic behavior, and likes him immensely less so as he is left dealing with Edd’s despondency at the loss of his friend.

Sure they go out and have adventures and it’s a great time. But the glumness seems to seep back into Edd reliably when the sun goes down and their group’s lead is left facing the reality that they’ve lost a core member. He can’t hold himself off from the idea that it was somehow his failing.

Tom just doesn’t talk about it. He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t need to. He is not stupid. He knows Tord and Tord’s tricks and as much as everyone is angsting or gnashing their teeth over his disappearance, Tom is left unsurprised albeit not unaffected. Human emotions are like that, they do what they want regardless of your own desires. Tom’s just not stupid enough to act on his. Mostly.

He rides out waves of deep set anger, and waves of crushing melancholy, and sometimes Edd or Matt catches him up at midnight drinking and crying on the table and without a word either of them leave, because he’s caught them in similar states and nobody wants to talk about what everyone is feeling.

And then what do you know, his hunch ends up being right. You see, Tom is above all things, not stupid. He thinks if he tells himself this enough it will make it true so he insists upon insisting this inherently knowledgeable, steadfast, and constant truth. He is not stupid.

Which means he knows Tord is around and coming back into their lives. As to when or where, he can’t really be certain but his gut insists eventually Tord will materialize. And then Tom is taking the bus home from a shitty bar on the far side of town. It’s the last one and there’s all of three people on when he boards and all of one by the time they hit his journey’s half way point.

Some dude with his hoodie up and his face downturned looking at his crotch. Tom does his best to ignore him and drift through his own thoughts, enjoying his buzz as the bus takes its many twists and turns through the winding streets. He closes his eyes. Moments like this he feels like he is on a rollercoaster as it is starting to tip down from the highest hump.

He can feel the weightlessness in his stomach as he waits to hit the bottom of the curve and feel the inertia, the rise of his body up and out. Tom just keeps his eyes closed and enjoys the phantom sensation. It is probably the closest thing he gets to peace on nights like these. 

Long hot and heavy. There’s an electric buzz in the air and he can’t tell quite what it spells but it feels like the universe is grinning at him, open mouthed, canines gleaming.

When the bus pulls into Tom’s stop he gets off and finds that the hooded man gets off with him. Great. He starts to head off in the direction of his home to find the hooded man following him. At first he gives the guy the benefit of the doubt. Same direction, sure.

But ten minutes and four turns later and the guy is still behind him. Hmm. Not so Good.

“You got a problem?” Tom rounds on him suddenly. It’s the alcohol if he is being honest, there is no way he would have the balls to confront this guy sober. But seriously, right now he is harshing his buzz massively and Tom just wants to get home and sleep.

The lamp light overhead is flickering in and out of existence and something about that makes Tom catch the contours of the stranger’s face and something about that is so familiar Tom lets his intuition take hold.

“Tord?”

“Ah so you recognize me, huh?” Tord says as he pulls down his hoodie and looks at Tom a long moment. His face looks older even though it’s been months, not years, since they last saw each other. Well. It’s been almost a year. The dingy light flickers off and then on in an indecisive flutter and Tom has had it. It is cold and starting to mist and this sudden revelation of the hooded figure has him sobered up.

He looks down the street and the hum that the air seemed to have, the feeling of existing inside a live wire, seems to have dispersed and the result is the cold emptiness of a discarded shotgun shell. He looks to Tord again, takes a long, lingering look into his eyes and then shrugs off his withholdings. He’s too drunk and too tired for good decisions.

“Let’s go to Denny’s,” Tom sighs, jerking his head towards the omniscient glowing yellow sign in the distance. It is a few blocks away but the warm yellow and red glow of the sign atop the building winks at them seductively saying come hither you grimy drunk and melodramatic cretin, enjoy my shitty 2am eggs and steak and wallow.

So they walk and the pavement starts to glisten as a fine mist starts to come down in earnest and Tom looks over at Tord, noting the gaunt contours of his face and the bruised skin under his eyes. The part of him that still regards fucking Tord as a good thing looks at him with empathy and kind of wishes he could take him home and let him sleep in his bed.

They repurposed his room into a pool room which original was full of billiards but later became full of water when a pipe burst and Edd just decided to cement the door shut instead of hiring a plumber. It would work until it didn’t and frankly Tom wasn’t sober enough most of the time to care.

They walk and the cement ahead of them gradually darkens and then starts to glisten with the sparse lighting of the city. They arrive at the edge of the Denny’s parking lot, wet asphalt stretched out ahead of them. The lights are all off but as they walk under them, a few flick on at their motion. Tom doesn’t bother looking to his side. There’s time enough for that later and he’s trying to scoop out his thoughts into a coherent manifestation but the result looks closer to the innards of a pumpkin dumped haphazardly onto a table.

They go in. Table for two. They sit. The waitress looks like the visible manifestation of Tom’s exhaustion and she snaps her gum at them once as she lays down menus and then disappears from the table without further comment.

Tom doesn’t feel hungry, he just decides he will get a cup of black coffee and that’s it. Tord decides likewise because that’s what he orders as well when the waitress returns. She apparently doesn’t get paid enough to be annoyed by their refusal to have a real meal and ducks off again.

“So….” Tord starts.

“Back in town again I see,” Tom says as he picks up a napkin off the table and begins to tear small pieces off it.

“Yes, it seems things have changed of late.”

“Rough time at work?”

“Something like that,” Tord says. The silence between them stretches out, long, though not uncomfortable. These two. They were used to being at odds with each other and it was more eerie to be getting along than it was to be at each other’s throats.

“You weren’t planning to go back were you?” It’s phrased like a question, delivered like one, but Tord knows otherwise.

“I figured I would come by to say hello,” Tord said, face placid. The waitress comes by and sets down their mugs. Tom tears open a packet of sugar and upends it into his, then two of the mini cups of milk.

He stirs his drink and watches as it turns to a silky blond color.

“They don’t want to see you,” he says, taking a sip and then setting down his cup to look at Tord. Tord sits hands in his lap, looking Tom directly back.

“I just figured a visit,” Tord says, drumming his fingers on the table once, “couldn’t be so bad.”

Tom picks up his napkin, or what is left of it and starts to tear again.

“I think it could.”

“Oh and you are one to talk,” Tord says, but there’s no heat behind it. Not in his voice at least. His eyes however.

“I am one to talk because for all my faults, and failings,” Tom tears the bits off faster as his voice gets louder, “I never left.”

“It’s easy to stick things through when there’s no expectations of you to begin with,” Tord says, voice still light, casual.

“It’s easy to give everyone else the short end when you don’t have to be around for the aftermath,” Tom says and his voice is seething. “This your plan eh? You do what you want and come back to rip everyone’s bandaids off because you’re ready to do the good friend routine?”

“I had other arrangements,” Tord said. Tom runs out of napkin. He pics up his coffee and takes a long sip. Sets it down hard enough that Tord’s cup jitters a bit in place.

“Well so do we,” Tom said. He throws money down on the table, stands and starts to walk. He hears the clatter of loose change after him and ignores it as he makes a beeline for the side entrance. He is out and the misting has turned into rain. Tom shoves his hands into his pockets and starts to walk.

The door behind him opens. Tom picks up his pace and rounds the corner. He is met face to face with the back end of the restaurant and a dumpster.

Something seizes the back of his sweatshirt. Tom lets go of whatever semblance of self-restraint he had been holding onto in the desperate attempt to tell himself that he had things locked down emotionally. He tries to duck out of Tord’s grip and when that doesn’t work he turns, plants a hand on Tord’s chest and pushes violently.

“What is it with you and not leaving things to rot?” Tom snarls. He backs up from Tord and finds himself against the dumpster. “You got nothing outside of all these grand schemes and big plans.”

Tord is silent. Dimly, there is a yellow outline to his body but beyond that Tom can’t read his expression or even see his face.

“What, you can’t hold together how much you like to pick at the people you abandoned, so you come crawling back?” Tom digs into his pocket and he knows, boy does he, that alcohol is the last thing he needs right now but he doesn’t know what he needs and alcohol is the quick and sleazy solution. He upends it’s contents into his mouth and tucks it back away.

He is aware, distantly that Tord is near him, saying something.

“Hey,” Tord says, eyes looking into his, face suddenly much closer than he last perceived it to be. “You stupid miserable drunk, listen to me.”

Tom laughs, loud and obnoxious and leans forward to plant his lips onto Tord’s. It lasts a split second before Tord pulls back spitting. 

“You taste like piss.”

“How do you know what piss tastes like?” Tom laughs again.

“You’re borderline bipolar is what you are,” Tord says as he wipes his mouth.

Tom reaches out and grabs Tord by the drawstrings of his hoodie seeming to sober up a bit under the hard edge of his anger. 

“I’m half drunk and wanting to go home without the hundred pounds of deadbeat at my ankle.”

“Yeah right, Tom, I know you. I know you so well I virtually own you,” Tord says and oh, isn’t that an ugly tint to his voice.

“You’re a wreck but your predictable.”

Tord leans in and presses himself against Tom. Tom shudders. 

“Yes that’s how it is isn’t it. You play a game like you don’t want it but I know,” Tord’s voice drops to a whisper. “I know you do.”

A wave of anger seems to consume Tom as he grabs Tord’s shoulders and moves him over so that he is the one pressed up against the dumpster. Tom presses his groin to Tord’s to find him half hard.

Tom grunts. 

He starts to frot against Tord and Tord looks at him smug as can be as Tom grinds against him. He lets his hands slide around Tom’s shoulders and grips his jacket as Tom continues. Tom looks up to see some of the tension ebbing out of his face.

Tord looks a bit more youthful, a bit less torn at all his edges. 

He can’t stand to kiss him, even like this, the thought makes him want to crinkle his nose. So Tom focuses on pressing himself to Tord and feeling the heat of his groin through his jeans.

Tord meanwhile, is enjoying things a surprising amount. Even here, in the back of a shitty rundown diner, he finds himself more at home and at ease. A lick of excitement wells in his stomach as he sees Tom’s brow furrow in concentration. He can’t help but think it’s cute.

Tord reaches forward and grabs the firm bubble of Tom’s ass and Tom seems to largely ignore it in favor of pressing himself more desperately against Tord and getting better friction between them. Tord gropes him even more harshly, digging his nails into the meat of Tom’s ass until he is given a wince. He rubs the spot in apology. Tom just keeps up his steady pace.

It’s cute how hard he tries, how genuinely sincere he can be, how eager to please. It almost makes Tord wish he had brought him along, had him indoctrinated to all the insanity of the past couple months. But no, he had to do this, and do it alone.

Soft moans make their way out of his mouth as Tom merely continues, oblivious to Tord’s inner monologue, but not oblivious to Tord’s erection straining through his pants, Tom unzips him and pulls out his cock from his pants.

Tom slides Tord’s pants all the way down to his ankles and then kneels on his pants as he takes Tord’s cock into his mouth. Tord tips his head back as Tom starts to suck him off. He puts his fingers into Tom’s hair and starts to thrust shallowly as Tom merely sits back and lets him.

Tord’s thoughts drift to the idea of Tom under his desk with his cock in his mouth while Pat issued orders. Tom warming his bed for him while he was out commanding the army. Tom with a collar and bite marks and the Red Insignia on him. Tom rubbing himself all over him like the desperate, needy, wanting dog he was. Violent and uncontrolled and animalistic.

Really. How easily manipulated and controlled. Even when not drunk.

He tongues the underside of Tord’s cock and as Tord moans he hums in response.

His bucks get rougher and rough and finally he cums. Tom pulls off and sits on his haunches for a minute. Tord catches his breath and then looks down at Tom with a look of smug satisfaction.

“See I told you, I know you, I knew you wanted this, that you couldn’t resist-.” Tom is turning his back to Tord midsentence. He reaches for his flask again takes a swig and then spits the mixture of cum and alcohol onto Tord’s jacket. 

“Wh- you,” Tord looks down at his pants, which during the whole oral ordeal have become half soaked in a mixture of rainwater and dumpster residue. Tom rises to a stand on shaky legs. 

“Stay the fuck away from my house,” he says and then starts to move forward, blindly, in any direction that Tord isn’t. The lot lights flick on as he passes.

Tom is sure he has a lot more to say to him but he is taking another swig of his drink and listening to the tinnitus in his ears as the sound of Tord’s voice gets more and more distant. He makes his way home.

Surprisingly, Tord does not follow. It is the sound of his own footsteps that Tom listens to the whole way home and when he enters the house everything is dead quiet except for the melodic sound of constant dripping.

Above him he sees a drop of water drip from a crack in the ceiling above. Tom watches it fall, staring at the small puddle it plipped into. He contemplates it a long moment.

They’re going to have to deal with this eventually, he is sure. And when they finally do it is going to be a mess. But for now, Tom opts not to worry about it and he throws off his sweatshirt and wet pants and puts them in the laundry before heading upstairs to bed.


End file.
